The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

A junior housemaid, a girl of about twelve, passed by with a bucket full of damp tea leaves for cleaning the carpet. They were excellent for picking up the dust. She nodded to Brodie respectfully, and walked past Colette as if she had not seen her. Brodie assumed she was another victim of the superiority of all things French. What did the French clean their carpets with? She had heard they did not drink tea! Coffee grounds would hardly serve. The very thought of it was unpleasant.

The cook was giving orders for the day’s menus. She was a buxom woman with a face which atfirst glance seemed benign. But Brodie knew her well enough to be aware that a fierce temper lurked behind the wide, blue eyes and generous mouth. At the moment it was drawn tight as she caught Colette’s smirk at the mention of custard for the suet pudding. “Yes?” she said challengingly.

Colette shrugged. “In France we ’ave more of the fruit and less of the suet,” she said distinctly, but without looking at anyone. “It is lighter, you understand? Better for the digestion, and of course for the form.” She was petite herself, beautifully curved, and moved almost like a dancer on a stage. Brodie felt a little squat and clumsy beside her. “Although you could be right,” Colette went in with a delicate little shiver. “After all, the climate, it is so damp! Maybe you need all the suet fat to keep you warm.” And without allowing time for anyone to think of a retaliation, she swept out, giving her skirts a little flick as she turned the corner.

“Oh!” the cook let out a snort of exasperation. “That girl! I swear if she comes in here one more time and tells me how good French cooking is, I’ll … I’ll … I’ll not be responsible!”

The kitchen maid muttered her agreement and heartfelt support.

Stockwell arrived looking portentous. It was his job to keep the entire household in order, and domestic difficulties were his to deal with. He had anticipated trouble in his address to the servants in general, in this morning’s prayers before breakfast, but it appeared that might prove insufficient. He should have known the cook by now, but habit and duty were too strong. “I am sure you will always be responsible, Mrs Wimpole,” he said smoothly. “You are the last person to let us down by behaving less than perfectly.” He straightened his shoulders even further. “We must not allow other nationalities to think we do not know how to conduct ourselves … even if they do not.”

Mrs Wimpole snorted again and banged her wooden spoon so hard on the kitchen table she all but broke it. The scullery-maid dropped a string of onions and gave a yelp.

“We all have our own difficulties to bear,” Stockwell said sententiously.

“Leastways Mr ’Arrison in’t French,” the bootboy said venomously, looking at Stockwell as boldly as he dared. “And no visitin’ General in’t makin’ a machine wot’il take away yer job from yer.” He looked thoroughly unhappy and frightened, his blue eyes wide, his blond hair standing slightly on end where the housekeeper had cut it rather badly — when Stockwell had been absent, up in London with Freddie.

“It won’t take your job, Willie,” Brodie said comfortingly. “I don’t suppose for a moment it works and, even if it did, do you imagine any gentleman would use it himself?”

“Mr Stockwell is all-fired keen on it, Miss,” Willie said doubtfully. “ ’im or Mr ’Arrison and the General is out there in the stables playin’ wif it every chance they gets.”

“They are assembling it, Willie,” Stockwell broke in. “That is entirely different.”

“I don’t see no difference,” Willie replied, but he did look rather more hopeful.

“Of course there is a difference,” Brodie reassured him. “In fact there is no relation. Putting it together is invention — a very suitable occupation for a gentleman, keeping him out of the house and harmlessly busy. Operating it every day to clean shoes would be work, and entirely unsuitable. Whoever heard of a gentleman cleaning his own boots?”

Willie was almost mollified. There was only one last hurdle to clear.

“Wot if ’e ’specs Mr Stockwell ter use it, seein’ as it’s a machine, an invention, like, and Mr Stockwell’s clever, an is ’is butler, an’ ’e don’t keep a separate valet?”

Stockwell stiffened.

“Butlers don’t clean boots,” Brodie pronounced without hesitation. “Regardless of how clever they are.”

“Oh … well I s’pose it’s alright then.”

“Of course it’s all right,” Brodie said briskly. “There is no reason whatever for you to worry.”

* * *

After a late and excellent breakfast of the sort Bertie Welch-Smith most enjoyed — eggs, bacon, sausages, kidneys, crisp-fried potatoes and tomatoes, followed by toast and sharp, dark Dundee marmalade and several cups of strong Ceylon tea, all of which he had sorely missed in France — he and Freddie went out to the stables to tinker with the machine.